


A Bitter Aftertaste

by Synekdokee



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Drunk Sex, M/M, hints at internalised homophobia or repression, won't somebody help michael townley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 14:05:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synekdokee/pseuds/Synekdokee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There were alcohol-punched holes in Michael’s memory of the night between leaving Trevor’s office to watch the dancers, and sitting on his sofa at home with Trevor standing over him, dick in hand."</p><p>Or, MIchael and Trevor aren't on the same page at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bitter Aftertaste

It got out of hand quickly.

They’d been at Trevor’s club, all three of them, Franklin included. The plan was to get drunk, see the girls, celebrate.

Franklin had bailed out early, perhaps unwilling to be a third wheel in Michael and Trevor’s rebonding. It had been funny at first, watching them reminiscence about old jobs, women, the shit they got up together, but eventually a sort of privacy came over the stories, “remember when” leading into vague descriptions and sentences one started and the other finished, frayed by the occasionally bitter tone in Trevor’s voice.

So Franklin had said his goodbyes and left the other two to mend whatever tears remained in their friendship.

There were alcohol-punched holes in Michael’s memory of the night between leaving Trevor’s office to watch the dancers, and sitting on his sofa at home with Trevor standing over him, dick in hand.

He remembered a lap dance from a blond girl, the surge of arousal at the feel of her soft skin under his fingertips. He remembered feeling light-headed as she sat in his lap, his  clothed cock pressing against the swell of her ass.

He thought there was a fight, or maybe it was just Trevor, and he remembered sitting in the passenger seat of his car, the city lights passing by in a blur.

He didn’t remember getting in his car, or Trevor driving (and usually you didn’t forget Trevor’s driving) or getting home or how he ended up in the living room, the house echoing its emptiness, Amanda and the children gone. ("We need some time, Michael," Amanda had said, compassionately, like she was letting a small child down.).

He remembered grabbing Trevor’s arms, Trevor’s biceps straining as he braced himself over Michael. He remembered Trevor roughly undoing Michael’s trousers, and trying to help with fumbling hands, desperate to get his aching cock out. He remembered his thighs being spread wide, remembered clawing Trevor’s back as Trevor leaned closer with a grunt.

Stupidly, he remembered a moment of sobriety: “Use a condom, use a fucking condom you fucking animal,” he’d snarled, twisting his body to dig in his jacket to throw his wallet at Trevor. Trevor’s eyeroll had been almost audible, but the crinkle of tearing foil had set Michael’s mind at ease.

There had been thick fingers pushing between his asscheeks as he panted. Trevor had growled like a shot bear and Michael had whined pitifully when a blunt hardness pressed against his hole, pushing in, in, until Trevor couldn’t move anymore.

He remembered Trevor’s hot breath on his neck, the smell of booze and sweat. He remembered how his cock felt trapped between their warm bellies.

He remembered how Trevor had felt inside him, unbearably thick, remembered the burn that never quite went away.

He remembered the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he moaned, egging Trevor on, and the need to come. On Trevor’s cock, from his hands, from his bulking form crowding him into the sofa. On the memory of Amanda, of the stripper, of that girl he’d met when he’d been 18 and stupid. Every memory of soft curves and wet cunts was driven from his mind with the furious thrusts of Trevor’s hips against his.

It was almost enough to get him off, just the ruthless fucking, the way Trevor was chasing his own orgasm selfishly above him, the chafing of Trevor’s jeans against his bared skin.

Almost.

With a frustrated groan he let go of Trevor, edging his hand between them, stripping his dick like he was punishing himself. It was good, it was perfect, the ache between his legs, the sound of Trevor’s breathless grunts, his own hand on his cock, doing it just the way he liked it.

He came before Trevor, his orgasm a shock, and he ground his teeth down hard on the moan trying to claw its way out. He held his softening cock in his hand, his come cooling quickly on his heated skin.

He stared at the curve of Trevor’s back, arched over him, and the hypnotic rhythm of his hips as he kept fucking into Michael, the drag of his cock growing more and more painful as Michael’s euphoria evaporated.

It didn’t take long until Trevor gave a hoarse shout, punching the sofa hard. His hips stuttered as he gave one last thrust, buried deep inside Michael. Michael felt the absurd need to stroke Trevor’s neck, as one might a spooked horse, but he restrained himself.

Trevor panted over him, body losing its tension slowly. With a groan, he straightened, pulling out slowly with his hand keeping the condom in place. Michael winced and shifted, closing his legs.

"Jesus," Trevor muttered, and there was the disgusting sound of something wet and rubbery hitting the floor.

Michael let his head flop back. He stared at the white ceiling, blinding himself on the spot lights. He could hear Trevor move around the room, the sound of the booze cabinet opening, the clink of glass.

He looked down at himself, and wanted to cry. He was half naked, his dress shirt stained with lord knew what, his stomach and hand stained with his own spunk. The used condom, tied up, lay pathetically at his feet. He looked at Trevor who was browsing the DVD shelf, jeans pulled up but undone, his belt clinking cheerfully as he moved.

"I want you to go," Michael said quietly.

Trevor turned to look at him, the bottle of (expensive) whisky in his hand. There was a mean look in his eyes, his mouth drawn tight. Michael braced himself for the inevitable lash-out, already submitting to whatever abuse Trevor was planning to fling at him.

Instead, Trevor just looked at him, eyes trailing over every inch of Michael’s spent self. He laughed, a sharp, cruel bark, and shook his head.

"You are so fucked up," he said, pointing at Michael with the neck of the bottle, "that you might just have the honour of being the only drunk fuck I’ve ever regretted."

He gave a theatrical bow, adjusted himself in his jeans and walked out, taking the bottle with him. The sound of the front door closing made Michael flinch.

The house was silent around him, and he felt a suffocating scream trying to burst from his chest. Trying to drown it, he got up and went to the cabinet, picking an unopened bottle of vodka and pouring as much as he could down his throat until he wanted to be sick.

Eventually he made his way up the stairs, cleaned himself up and got into bed in the guest room, unwilling to look at Amanda’s portrait on his bedside table. His ass ached, and so did his chest, and it had nothing to do with the webbed scar five inches down his sternum.

He took another sip from the bottle and buried his face in the pillow, hoping the booze would numb him before he fell asleep.


End file.
